Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
She slept with him,
but knew it was wrong.
He wasn’t even human.
She’d spent so much time
wishing him dead.
Hell, she’d tried to kill him
more than once.
But he was a poet
and something in his pain
spoke to something
in her pain,
and when they lay together,
the building crumbled
around them
and all the reasons
not to be together
slipped away.
He’s my enemy, not my boyfriend
(though sometimes
I can’t tell the difference).
He says his darkness
is in the past, but his edges
are still tinged with black.
He tries to hurt me,
but I’m too busy hurting him
to notice.
The more damage I do,
the more he loves me.
And when he’s bad,
I long to kiss him.
Smashed together,
we can’t part.
Pleasure, pain,
they’re just the same.
Walls cave in.
Ceilings fall.
As do we,
amid the wreckage.